


Finding My Place

by Book7BrokeMyBrain



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Kink, M/M, Spanking, robe fetish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 10:35:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1507391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Book7BrokeMyBrain/pseuds/Book7BrokeMyBrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the Snarry-A-Thon 2011 fest.<br/>Prompt:  The first time Harry walks in on Snape spanking a student in detention he's more than a little shocked. But soon he realizes he wishes that it was him face down over Snape's lap, with his bare, stinging arse in the air. What, if anything, and when, if ever, he does anything about it is up to you. </p><p><b>A/N:</b> Beta'd by <span class="ljuser i-ljuser i-ljuser-type-P"></span><a class="i-ljuser-profile" href="http://asnowyowl.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://asnowyowl.livejournal.com/"></a><b>asnowyowl</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	Finding My Place

Right. So.

I was fifteen when I saw it. I showed up a bit early for my 'Remedial Potions' session and heard it coming from Snape's office. A spanking. A boy was yelling in pain.

I'd never heard such a thing. Sure, kids in my primary school got a smacking from their parents now and then, and Uncle Vernon had wrenched my arm and cuffed my ear occasionally if he could actually catch me, but a punishment spanking? I'd never experienced that.

The door was ajar, and I pushed it open a crack, until I could see the scene inside. I recall a queasy, sick feeling that wasn't entirely unpleasant as I pressed against the door and looked. I know I was flushed, and I was panting a little. I'd never felt a rush like that before, never in my wildest wanking fantasies had I ever been so turned on. This kind of thing had never occurred to me in my short life. My knees practically gave out as I stood there, seeing some poor Slytherin boy getting the spanking of the year for god-knew-what. I quickly pulled the door closed, leaving it as I found it, and froze.

I debated escaping. I was so embarrassed for the bloke – he was shouting and crying for god's sake – but I couldn't have moved a toe if I tried. Snape was lecturing his victim between rhythmic, thunderous smacks to his bare bottom; there was no mistaking that sound of flesh on flesh. I tried to hear what Snape was saying because I knew even then that I'd be coming to this memory for years after, and I'd want detail to work with, but the blood was pounding in my ears.

After a few minutes of eavesdropping, the sounds stopped suddenly. Snape's stern lecture changed tone somewhat. I was so hard, I didn't know how I was going to run away, but I managed to get to the boy's bathroom in the dungeon, lock myself in a stall and tear open my flies. I grabbed my cock, and before I could even pretend to fantasize, I was coming with a shuddering groan.

Occlumency lessons that day were a horror. You can just imagine.

I arrived late, naturally. Snape was still slightly flushed from his exertions, and so was I. He wouldn't accept my excuse of a last-minute trip to the loo. Of course not. I was suddenly afraid he might turn me bare-bottomed over his lap and spank me for my transgression. Afraid and hopeful.

It was that moment that I marked as a significant one. At fifteen, I'd had my first very adult, very concrete sexual fantasy, different from any of the other half-formed wanking sessions I'd had.

I figured something out that day. It made me and ruined me all at once. I knew two things for sure: I liked the idea of being in a sexually charged situation with a man, and I was petrified of being spanked by Severus Snape, but wished he would do it anyway.

* * *

Ten years later, after my Quidditch career reached its end, I came back home to teach Defense at Hogwarts. I was exhilarated. I was petrified. Severus Snape was the Potions master, once again, still Head of Slytherin. I was reduced to a jibbering fifth-year the moment he walked into the staff room upon my return.

Minerva arranged for Snape to mentor me, the new professor, in classroom control and the myriad other tasks and details required of the masters. I think she did it to amuse herself, reminding him that it was part of his role as Deputy Head to see to the new hires. Mostly, I think she was bored, and there was probably a pool going to see how long I'd last before I got hexed.

I started to wonder if I couldn't manage to get myself punished another way.

 

After yet another hour in his office that last week in August, after being droned at about filing systems, and test marking, proper ink colors, seating plans and basic hex-repelling charms for one's robes (Spit-balls won't stick! Flatulence jinxes won't linger!), I yawned. I tried to hide it behind my fist, but it was loud.

“Am I boring you, Potter? I am imparting all my hard-won knowledge for your benefit, not my health.”

“Oh, no, Severus.” I made myself call him Severus. It felt all wrong, but I was getting used to it fast. I kept Remus in mind every time I did. Call Severus Severus, like I used to call Voldemort by his name. Takes the fear out of a thing, calling it by its proper name. “I'm sorry. Just so much prep, late nights. I'm rather nervous.”

“You should be. They are going to eat you alive, Potter. And that's just the first-years.” Snape smirked at me, then stood. Apparently, class was over for the evening. I stood as well, affected just a bit by what I was about to ask. I'd been waiting for my moment. This seemed to be optimal.

“Er. Severus?” I looked up and caught his gaze. We moved closer as we approached the door, we brushed the hems of our robes, he got so near me.

“Potter,” he said, with what I believe was actual warmth in his voice, “you'll do fine. The first week is a madhouse for the students as well as the teachers. They'll never notice if you aren't at your best right away.” He cupped my elbow in his hand and gave it a slight squeeze. I was not ready for that, and I gasped softly. “You're trembling.”

I nodded. “I....” Words failed me, now that I needed to articulate something.

“Potter.” He frowned down at me. “Don't be ridiculous. You'll be fine. Better than fine, in fact, as loath as I am to admit that.”

“Thank you for that. I actually needed to ask a prickly question about Hogwarts' policy on....” Oh, this wasn't going very smoothly.

Snape cocked a brow. “Go on....”

“On,” Merlin, I was going to say it, “corporal punishment.” I must have blushed to my roots.

“I see.” He moved back to the side of his desk, and I followed on shaky legs. I sat back down on the chair in front, as he paced a bit, tracing a finger around his mouth, like he does when he's deep in thought. “And what, exactly, did you need to know?”

“Well, is it allowed? As a master, am I expected to, um, administer that kind of thing?” He stared at me, hard, and I started to yammer on. “Because, I don't know what is allowed, or isn't, or when it is, or what you do here, or how to, to, _do_ it, or what with--” I closed my eyes, and swallowed. I started when his heavy hand settled on my shoulder.

“Potter, breathe.” I did. “What makes you think that kind of thing is allowed here? Was it done to you?”

“Oh, no. Never.”

“Not that you didn't deserve it on occasion.” He smirked at me. My head could have exploded from the rush of images flooding my brain. “One word: _Sectumsempra._ ” Merlin, I almost fell off my chair. “If I'd had my way, you would have slept on your stomach for a week, and not have sat comfortably for a month, after you hurt Draco, one of my own. So, to answer your question, yes. Such punishments are allowed here. They are used sparingly, and it is up to each master how and if they are administered, but it happens.”

I nodded, my tongue plastered to the roof of my mouth. “Will--” I swallowed, “will you show me?”

He turned for the cabinet in the back of his office. He rummaged in the top shelf, my eyes plastered to his back, until he returned carrying a few items. He laid out a cane, an old leather shoe, and a handled hairbrush. “The cane, the slipper, and the brush. And of course, the hand.” He held up his right hand like an object, turning it, tugging down on his cuff, exposing his wrist. I think, at that moment, I developed an instant kink for hands. And cuffs. “Too much to learn in one evening, as they all have a particular skill involved in their wielding, and traditions to be upheld in their application. However, I believe we could cover the hand and brush today, if you'd care to begin? Professor Potter?”

I blinked to refocus. “Yeah. Yes. Thanks.” I stood.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I – I'm standing up.”

“Why? I'm about to tell you about protocols and such.”

“I thought you were going to show me.”

He smiled wryly at that. “You, Potter, are volunteering to be punished like a schoolboy? Haven't you had enough pain and humiliation for one lifetime?”

Nope. “I--” I was stammering again, until clarity hit, and I pulled myself into some semblance of professionalism. I smoothed out my robes a bit, stood a little straighter. “It's just that I would never want to inflict a punishment incorrectly, inexpertly, and cause more pain than I intended. I think I need to know what it feels like so I can... understand it. Also, I'm sure being put in that position would help me decide if I even want to do that to a student at all.” I surprise myself with my own cleverness sometimes. I pushed my glasses back up my nose and waited.

“I see.” The fingertip was tracing his lips again. “Very well.”

“Maybe you should pretend that I'm back in sixth year, and I'd just hexed Malfoy. What would you do to me then? Do that,” I offered.

“Oh, no,” he scoffed, shaking his head, crossing his arms. “You wouldn't want that.” He took a deep breath and continued. “Fine. First lesson: make them wait for it. Report to me, here, tomorrow at eight P.M. sharp, Mr. Potter.”

I was terribly disappointed, and yet terribly turned on. Merlin, he was making me _wait for it_. I tried not to let that show on my face. “Alright. Thanks.” I'd been standing there like a lump all this time, so I nodded goodnight and headed for the door.

“Potter.” I turned. “If you change your mind I will understand. There are some things that cannot be undone, and we do have to work together. Think about it.”

Again, nope. “I will. Thanks.”

* * *

I thought about it all right. I thought about it before I fell asleep, post-orgasm. I thought about it in the shower, mid-orgasm. I thought about it every time I laid eyes on Severus that day, at meals, in the halls. I stared at him as much as I dared down the high table. I think he was almost as uncomfortable as I, to judge by the odd look on his face.

I had to interact with my colleagues that day, with Minerva and Hagrid, almost everyone, and it's like remembering through a fog. I was slipping into such a state, merely from the apprehension. If I were a student, and not at all looking forward to a punishment with Snape, I could see the benefit of extending the suspense.

Since that day in fifth year, I'd got my orientation sorted. I'd had my share of men and a few women, just to be sure, but I never explored this piece of me, this desire to be spanked, and that left a void. I think this piece belonged solely to Severus. At the very least, I never wanted anyone else to have a hand in punishing me, striking me, dominating me, and so I'd kept this little part of my soul close to the vest. It would be foolish of me to share with anyone I didn't fully trust that The Boy Who Lived, The Savior, the No. 1 Target of the Remaining Death Eaters, could be that vulnerable in the bedroom. Not so strange, then, that Severus Snape was on the short list of people I trusted. I didn't begrudge myself a bit of addle-mindedness today. I was approaching a watershed moment in my life, and I was understandably nervous.

After a light supper of soup and nervous glances, I bid the staff a good evening and left for my quarters. I laid out what clothes I had that would approximate a student's uniform, then took a shower in my rooms. As the warm water beat down on my body, I leaned my head against the cool limestone and took myself in hand. The last thing I wanted was to be turned over Snape's lap aroused. I hoped the refractory period of a twenty-five-year-old would spare me that humiliation.

 

I knocked firmly on his office door and waited. After a few moments, Severus stepped out and joined me in the corridor.

“Good evening, Potter. Right on time, I see.” He scanned my outfit, his eyes resting on my old school tie.

“Yes.” I shifted nervously and made to move past him.

He stopped me with his fingertips spread against my chest. “Not just yet.” He closed the door, and clasped his hands behind his back, assessing me. “Once we enter that room, you will be a student, and I will proceed as if you were so. You will see how I administer a punishment. I must tell you that it is a very intimate thing. I do not bend a boy clinically over the desk, I pull him across my lap and hold him there until I am done.” My head was spinning. “I feel it makes a greater impact, and conveys a stronger message that cannot be ignored. It's how I do it; I won't apologize for it. Again, I will give you the chance to decline, with no hard feelings. I certainly don't have my heart set on this demonstration. I imagine you don't, either.”

I took a breath. “I want to, Severus.” 'Need to' was more like it, and I didn't want to give him time to back out. “Can we get on with it, please?”

“Very well. Sit in that chair until you are called.” He gestured behind me and had slipped back into his office before I'd turned around again.

I wished after the first quarter hour that I'd thought to check the time before I sat. The bastard was keeping me waiting again. My feet were bouncing, my hands fidgeting, and I was definitely on the hairy edge of yelling in impatience when the door opened again.

“Come in, Mr. Potter.”

I bustled in and found a place to stand near the straight-backed chair set in the middle of the floor.

He swept in around me, all around me, it seemed, his master's robes dragging over my feet as he moved. I saw the hairbrush on the desk behind the chair, in easy reach. He stood before me, collected, calm, arms crossed.

“Now. You are here because you have continued to misbehave, with increasingly illicit and dangerous infractions. You certainly have not learned your lesson from the endless detentions you have served, and so, Mr. Potter, we shall see if I can drive home a lesson that will stay with you for longer than it takes to chop a bucket of flobberworms. If not, at least I will feel that I have done my best to correct your behavior. Somehow, I think you will wish to avoid such repercussions in future.” He settled himself on the chair, pushing his robes off to the side, resting his palms on his thighs. “I am going to spank you, bare-bottomed, with my hand and this hairbrush, until I feel you have had enough. Do not dare try to get up until I tell you to, or I will stick you to the desk and slipper you raw. Is that understood?”

I swallowed and forced a dry, “Yes.”

“Do you have anything you wish to confess at this time? Anything you think I don't know about, and would like to have lifted from your conscience?”

I thought he must have stolen that line from Dumbledore. Still, it had my mind churning with guilt and fear with memories of my schoolboy escapades. “Um, no. Sir.”

“You look terribly guilty, Mr. Potter. I can only imagine. Well, we shall see to that immediately. Drop your trousers.”

I unbuckled my belt, and pulled down my zip.

“On second thought, Mr. Potter, remove your shoes and trousers. They are too tight to allow for proper positioning.”

“Yes, sir.” I was blushing so hard, my hands frankly shaking, but I kicked off my dress shoes, slid my trousers off and left them on the floor in a heap. Severus was holding out a hand to me. I stared at it, not understanding, until he leaned forward, grasped my wrist and jerked me to him. He reached around my waist and tipped me over his lap in one, dizzying motion. All of a sudden, I was almost upside-down, palms on the floor.

I was relieved. I didn't have to act; he was taking all choice from me. All I had to do was exist and try to bear my beating. I began to relax over his thighs until I felt him push my shirttails up, and icy fingers dug under the elastic of my briefs, and _whoosh_ they were down to the backs of my knees. There was definitely no erection for them to catch on, although I was tingling all over. My bottom was cold. I felt so exposed. My fingers scrabbled for purchase on the stone floor. My left hand caught the hem of his robes, so I filled my palm with that warm comfort, and waited.

I felt his palm run across the small of my back, hooking around my waist, and his right adjust me snugly against his body, then smooth over my bottom as if gauging its size. I squeezed my handful of wool, squeezed my thighs together, and braced.

“Are you ready?”

I jerked my head in a nod.

The first slap wasn't painful, just shocking. Neither were the next several. It was an odd feeling of impact traveling up my pelvis. He was hitting me low, with a cupped hand, making these popping sounds, like rifle shots, reverberate around the office. It was _scary_. It was violent. I was being _hit_.

When he flattened his hand, _then_ it started to hurt. It stung, and he kept moving from the meaty part of my bottom to my sit-spot, the thin skin at the crease. As much as I tried, I couldn't stay still, and I began to wriggle. His arm held me tighter, and I moaned, biting my lower lip to stifle myself. I was getting hard. I whimpered softly at that. I didn't want him to feel it. My humiliation was complete.

He started to strike me rhythmically, with those thundering smacks I remembered, and he started to speak, a low, scolding torrent of words. He was lecturing and I'll be buggered if I can recall a single phrase. I was floating, riding the building pain, blood pounding in my ears once more, my bare arse up in the air, just as I had fantasized all these years. If it wasn't for the screaming pain, I'd have been in heaven.

There was a lull, and I felt him reach behind for the brush. I collected myself, breathed, pushed my glasses back up my face, and pressed the handful of robes to my cheek, caressing him by proxy.

When I felt the cold wood being circled against my hot cheek, I braced again.

“The brush, now, Mr. Potter. Remember, don't try to get up. You will take everything I see fit to give you.”

“Yes, sir,” I huffed out.

The first crack of the brush made me stiffen and open my mouth in a silent shout. After that, they weren't silent. I shouted and howled and fought to get away. He paddled me from side to side, then laid them one on another in increasing strokes, two in a row, then three, then four, until I was rocking and thrashing to get away. My legs scissored and kicked, I bent them, trying to fend off the blows. I screamed and sobbed as he attacked the very bottom of my cheeks and my flanks, making the loudest reports as the unyielding wood made perfect contact with my thickening flesh. He had long since pinned my right arm to my back, and pressed it down, to focus on avoiding my flailing legs. He even spanked the backs of my thighs to get me to open up, but I was mindless with pain, and never learned my lesson. He only paddled me harder when I fought.

My world reduced to that place, that moment, my skin, and his firm body surrounding me, controlling me, forcing me to endure. My arousal had disappeared, no fear, but I had gone to a different level of existence entirely. I gave up. Went limp. I couldn't fight him. I submitted utterly.

I remembered falling. I was falling off my broom, hundreds of feet, helpless. I was falling again, but I wasn't afraid. He had me.

 

The next thing I knew, I was on my knees, and Severus was tugging up my pants, gently smoothing them back in place, tugging the elastic around my waist, pulling down my shirttails. I came back to Earth to find myself staring adoringly, with glazed-over eyes, into a face full of calm concern.

I took a cleansing breath, and murmured, “I have a confession.”

He quirked an eyebrow, and sat back in his chair. “Oh, _now_ you want to confess. Go on.”

I was dizzy. I shuffled forward on my knees until I straddled his foot, leaning my breastbone against his shin. I sat, legs bent like a jackknife, my blistered, throbbing bottom resting on my stockinged feet, and embraced his leg. I pressed my cheek against the side of his thigh, trying to find a purchase for my hands in the taut cloth of his trousers. I slid them further up his thigh and rested them there.

I never wanted to move. I was safe and secure. I bowed my head, and breathed in the warmth of his body wafting around me.

He shifted, and I felt his robes twitched over me, covering my back, keeping me warm, even as I began to shiver with release. I dug my fingers into the folds of his trousers.

“I saw you once before,” I whispered. “That's how I knew.”

“I know you did.” I thought about that in the silence. “You were a rubbish Occlumens.” I held his leg tighter and nodded. “Now, I have a confession,” he said quietly. “Several, in fact.

“I suspected that you were insincere about learning to administer corporal punishment, but let you come tonight, anyway. Most men, no matter how heroic and self-sacrificing, would never submit to a spanking like that unless they had a proclivity for it.

“Once we started, and I saw how you reacted, I stopped treating you like a student. I gave you the punishment you needed.” His warm fingers combed the sweaty hair from my forehead, brushing it aside, then carding over my scalp, over and over, scratching lightly. I thought I couldn't be happier... I was wrong. I purred like a lion and held him closer.

“I gave much thought to whether we ought to do this tonight at all, since we are to be colleagues. But, I am not made of stone, and I must admit a certain attraction to you since your return. I was afraid to let an opportunity like this pass. Harry.” He tugged gently on my hair. As if I wouldn't look up anyway at his use of my name. My gaze froze on the sight of his erection, and I moved my hand to grasp it gently through his trousers, as I settled my head back against his thigh to rest.

He petted my hair, apparently happy with my answer to his concerns.

* * *

So, I stand here again, some months later, waiting for him to answer my knock on his office door. When it opens, I can see the cane laid out on his desk, and I tremble in anticipation as his hand wraps around my Gryffindor tie and pulls me inside.

He'll put me in my place soon enough.

-end-

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The aftercare, kneeling posture Harry takes (and the grasping of Severus's erection) was something I witnessed between a Dom and his boy. It was so beautiful I had to memorialize it in a work.


End file.
